Page 79 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife

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Buttercup the Princess Bride: We'll never survive.

Westley: Nonsense. You only say that because no one ever has.

? The Princess Bride. Director: Rob Reiner

Summer

"I’ll get it." My voice echoes in the wake of the doorbell.

I am alone, again, in the mansion on Primrose Hill.

It is the start of the weekend and I haven't seen him...or anyone else for that matter. He seems to subscribe to the philosophy that servants shouldn't be noticed, except for the results of their efforts.

He definitely has a staff... for food seems to appear magically in the refrigerator and the entire place is spotless, so someone does clean the space. Besides, I'd returned home last night to find my bed made up. It is disconcerting, like living in a hotel... which isn't quite one. I shiver, scrutinize the massive library. I've adopted the space as my own. The floor to ceiling bookshelves, framing the window that looks out on the garden, is my happy space. So why do I keep glancing toward the door, hoping to see him, huh?

Not that I missed him. Nope. N-a-h.

It is a relief not to be on tenterhooks, or peeking around corners before daring to go to my destination within the house. I’d come home from the office—on the tube—again, not complaining. If anything, I am envious of folks who go about their everyday life with scarce in the world to worry about except which bar to go out to on Friday night. Which dress to wear to work in the morning. Which job to hop to next. Which date to shag and take home for the weekend… Oh, on the last... Okay, I’ve always really admired those who could do that.

Not that I hadn’t tried, mind you, but apparently, I have a weird set of morals; imbued, no doubt, from the nuns in the convent school that Karma and I had last attended.

While I had held onto those beliefs—perhaps desperately, for they had grounded me— Karma had gone the other way.

Maybe that’s because she had been such a sickly child.

When she should have been laughing and playing with the other kids, she had been confined to peering at us from behind the windows. So, when she’d finally come of age, and had joined me in the real world, she couldn’t wait to explore her fledgling sexuality. On the days that her health permitted, of course.

I race down the steps and fling open the door.

Karma swaggers in.

She’s wearing dark skinny jeans, torn at the knees. Boots that have massive platforms, a blouse that slipped down one shoulder and is held together by safety pins; another of which is pierced through her lip. Her lip? I blink.

"Didn't the Gwen Stefani look fade with the Nineties?"

"Shows how little you are in touch with current trends, Sis."

Huh? I frown and she chuckles. She tugs on my hair, "So easy to pull a fast one over you, huh?"

She saunters past.

"You could, at least, pretend to be a responsible adult."

"Hey, I knit… That’s my two-pence contribution toThe World According to Garp."

"What are you talking about?" I knot my hair around my fingers.

"It means, adulting is overrated. Besides, you do enough of that for the two of us."

Her boots leave muddy footprints on the polished floor. Should I say something? Why do I care? This isn’t my home. I am borrowing it for the duration of... what? A fake marriage to a cold-hearted, obnoxious alphahole, who is trying his best to forget about my existence, apparently.

"Why are you here?"

She does a turn, blows out a low whistle "Damn, you hit the jackpot, woman."

"Or the end of my patience." I tighten my hold around the half-open door.